Last Call
by Amidephrine
Summary: The last call for London bars has come and gone, and it isn't long after that Alfred gets a late-night call from a concerned waitress who isn't quite sure how to deal with her stubborn patron. Naturally, he's expected to play hero, no matter how much he just wants to turn his phone off and go back to sleep.


**Just a heads up, f-bombs are dropped!**

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It's the buzzing of a phone that rouses Alfred, and he is awkwardly fumbling for the device even before he is truly awake.

"...Hullo?" his voice catches in his chest and he sounds hoarse. There are noises on the line: voices, but not one to answer to. "Hello?" he repeats after clearing his throat.

"You...You...smell...just absolutely horrid...all the time."

Alfred pulls the phone away from his ear to give it an incredulous look. When he listens again, there are more voices, fainter.

"Sir...sir," a woman is saying, "let me call you a cab,"

"No!" It takes a moment, but eventually America can put a face to that voice and he rolls over with a loud, childish sigh. "I don't need a bloody...bloody cabby...you talk to him! He's gon' set you straight 'n tell you I'm right as fuckin' rain, I am!"

There was a loud clatter, as if the phone on the other end had been put through a blender.

"Sir! Sir, your phone!"

Alfred calls out another greeting, louder this time.

"Oh...uh..." the woman's voice is confused, but is the first to actually come through clearly since the American had picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hi!"

"Hi."

Alfred smiles up at the ceiling.

"How's it going?"

The poor woman sounds like she is about to cry.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, he dialled this number when we asked him to leave."

She doesn't elaborate on who, nor from where "he" was being asked to leave, but this was likely because she still wasn't sure the man hadn't just pressed numbers at random. Lucky for her, this was not the first call of the sort Alfred had gotten.

"It's alright, and don't worry – he's harmless."

"Oh, you know him?"

He laughs at the relief in her voice.

"Yeah, and if he's as far gone as he sounds, it's probably best if I come take him off your hands."

"Would you, sir? I can't get him to cooperate with anyone here."

"Of course! I think I know where he is, I should be there in a minute. Just sit him down and tell him a friend is on the way, he should behave."

"O-okay, how long will you be?"

Alfred rolls, pushing himself upright and looks to the digital clock on his nightstand. It was half-past-two in the morning. The bars would all be emptying.

"No more than five minutes, I promise."

The woman thanks him again and Alfred is already pulling on his jeans and stumbling for the front door. He grabs a t-shirt off his dresser as the woman gives him the address – just to be sure he has the right place in mind.

He does, and tells the woman not to worry, promising that he will be there soon. By the time he feels the woman won't burst into tears after he hangs up the phone, he is in the elevator.

Thankfully, Alfred knows where the Brit's favourite pub is, and he knows it is only a short jog from the American's favourite hotel. He literally hits the ground running, slipping through the sliding doors before they open all the way and dashing out into the drizzling London night.

He is at the pub in record time and ignores the fact that the sign is turned to 'closed'. He lets himself in to the bar where waitresses are putting chairs up on tables and the bartender is wiping down the last of his dishes. He is given a few strange looks and one waitress approaches him, wringing her hands as if about to remind him they were closed.

Alfred pointedly stares at the figure hunched over at the bar, and the woman understands.

"Excuse me, sir," she begins, staying formal because she is still in uniform, "are you here for him?"

She points with a small gesture to where Alfred's eyes are already fixed and he nods. She smiles and leads him over, as if he needed the guidance, and shook the patron's shoulder gently.

"Sir, your friend is here to take you home now."

The man sits up quite suddenly, turns his head and furrows his very prominent brow.

"It's _you_," he grumbles, visibly struggling to hold his focus and Alfred rolls his eyes. "I knew you would come," he hisses ominously.

"Dude, you called me."

"No I'm quite sure I didn't! Don't lie, boy, it's unbecoming and I _know_ I taught you better and hey-"

Alfred doesn't have the patience to hear out the drunken tirade, and he ducks down to brace his shoulder against Arthur's ribs. When he stands in one fluid motion, his former guardian is slung over his shoulder, flailing miserably.

"A-ah, are you going to be okay, sir?" the waitress asks from behind her fingers, covering her mouth as she well.

Alfred offers her his most charming smile, one that he hopes will help her forgive their display.

"We'll be fine. I'm staying at the hotel just around the corner, we don't have far to go."

The woman looks nervous and does not try to hide it.

"I promise," he says, "I'll make sure he's okay."

She thanks him and returns to her closing duties. The bartender throws them a hasty farewell as Alfred exits.

Then it is just Alfred and Arthur and the short walk back to the former's hotel room because Arthur's flat is on the other side of town and America doesn't have the patience to see him all the way there tonight. He is tired and wet and really just wants to get back to bed.

Arthur starts kicking up more of a fuss when he is hit with a second wind of energy. He kicks his feet and pushes on Alfred's back, so much so that eventually the taller man relents and sets the Brit on the concrete.

"What are you doing, Arthur?" Alfred asks, exasperated. He hates dealing with Arthur when the Brit is drunk and Alfred is not because it's like dealing with a child. A very, very old child that makes Alfred feel obligated to be the mature one.

The Brit in question just stares, confused, at the question, taking a little too long to think up an answer.

"Presently? I'm standing, you twit!" Arthur is scowling because this is the most obvious thing in the world to him and Alfred is, once again, rolling his eyes. Miraculously, Arthur is not so far gone as to miss the display. He whacks his former charge over the head with far more force than necessary, but Alfred isn't hurt. "Don't sass me, you wanker! I don't care how big you've gotten I will still take you over my knee!"

"Why did you drink so much? We've got a meeting tomorrow!"

"You think I don't know that? I know that! I'm hosting the bloody conference!"

"Arthur." Alfred speaks slowly and clamps his hands down on the shorter man's shoulders. "Then. Why. Are. You. Smashed?"

Arthur stands still for a moment, giving the cruel illusion of serious thought. Then, he pulls his head back and narrows his eyes.

"Where the hell did you come from?"

America considers throwing the man back over his shoulder and just ignoring his protests because fuck if it isn't nine times easier than dealing with a heavily intoxicated Britain. Also they are standing in a cold rain, getting soaked to the bone and all Alfred could think about was how warm and cozy he had been in his bed.

It takes a bit of coaxing and an arm around his shoulders for support, but eventually Alfred convinces the Englishman to walk himself back to the hotel "like a proper gentleman." He doesn't bother talking to the green-eyed blabbermouth who seems happy enough chatting idly to himself. Alfred isn't even paying attention to the things he is saying until he laughs suddenly. It starts as a small chuckle, but eventually Arthur is laughing so hard he can no longer walk and his weight pulls on America's neck in a very uncomfortable way.

"Arthur!"

But Arthur is a mess, laughing madly and hanging off the taller man's shoulders without a care in the world. And then Alfred actually hears what it is the man is laughing about.

"-and we all knew it was a joke but the timing was so _perfect_ with the wind and the door slamming you both started crying at the top of your lungs."

He was retelling a story from Alfred's childhood, when Arthur had gathered the North American boys for story time.

"...and Canada was alright once the shock wore off but you cried and cried and cried and wouldn't sleep alone that night, and _you_ were the one that wanted that story to begin with and god the _look_ on your _faces_."

Arthur howls with laughter again and Alfred decided to just drag the Brit the rest of the way.

Getting him up to Alfred's room is easier because all he has to do is stand there and keep the Englishman upright as they ascend in the elevator. Arthur is retelling the same story and finding it just as funny. He ignores the younger nation's attempt to shush him.

When Alfred gets his room door open and steps inside, fumbling for the light in the darkness, Arthur takes his first uncertain steps on his own.

Of course he trips over his own feet and clatters to the floor with a stream of colourful swears.

And in that moment America is too tired to deal with him. He kicks his door shut with his heel and steps over where Arthur is rolling on the floor and behaving not at all like the gentleman he is known for. Alfred tosses his keys onto the dresser and runs a hand through his unkempt hair with a long sigh. He wants nothing more to leave the older nation on the floor and return to bed.

But that wouldn't be very heroic.

So Alfred stands over the other and pouts.

"This isn't cool, Artie."

"You isn't...aren't..." The man furrows his brow again, then tries once more: "Y_ou_ aren't cool."

Then he seems to sober up for a moment as he stares up at the boy he raised.

"When did you grow up so much?"

"Almost two hundred years ago now, Artie."

Arthur sighs.

"I miss those days."

Alfred doesn't, but he does not admit to this because it would sound a lot harsher than he would ever mean it to. He does not miss the days of his youth because he is forever looking to grow up and out with the world, but that does not mean he regrets them.

"Why'd you drink so much?" he asked, hoping that in these brief moments of sobriety he might get a straight answer.

The Englishman shrugs and folds his arms over his stomach. His gaze wanders off to the right so that he stares into a dresser.

"I just got to thinking, I guess," he admits, reaching out to paw at the one of the drawers he is staring at. "This is the end of my time atop the world."

Alfred raises and eyebrow and crouches down by his former guardian's head.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been a superpower for centuries, lad," absently, the Brit reaches up and his fingertips brush along the bridge of Alfred's nose before he rallies enough coordination to pull off the American's glasses. "But after Suez...not anymore...my glory days are dead and gone."

In that moment Arthur looks truly heartbroken and Alfred worries he'll have to see his former guardian cry again. It is never a very proud moment for either of them.

"I can see it now...For years I've heard the humans saying they live on in their young, but as _we_ are it's harder for us to relate." Arthur is smiling despite how sad he looks and he repeats: "But I can see it now."

Those green eyes are fixed on him and Alfred feels uneasy.

"Don't forget about me, okay?"

"Hey," Alfred pats the man on the cheek, perhaps a little too roughly if the other blonde's facial reaction is any hint. "You're not going to fade away."

"Maybe not now, but..."

"No. Not you – not ever. I mean, look at Prussia. Gilbert's still kicking isn't he? If someone like him is still around, there's no doubt in my mind that you won't disappear. Besides, Great Britain doesn't strike me as the kind of place to just dissolve into other nations." Arthur takes a moment to let the younger nation's words sink in, and then he is smiling again. He still looks close to tears, but at least the reason is different.

"You're a good kid-"

But Alfred wasn't done.

"Either way, I'm sure you'll still be harassing the lot of us over trivial things a thousand years from now."

The expression soured.

"Fuck you, you git."

He tried to punch America in the jaw, but his strike was slow and poorly aimed and all Alfred really had to do was stand up to be out of harm's way. Alfred is laughing and Arthur doesn't have the focus to stay bitter for very long at the moment, so he laughs too.

Alfred pulls the smaller man to his feet and helps him over to the bed. He pulls the man's shoes off and tosses them towards the door and helps him to worm his way out of his coat. He plucks his glasses from where Arthur still grips them loosely in his hand and places them down on the bed side table. Arthur murmurs something, but his words are so slurred and it's as if his fatigue had hit him all at once. America swears the man is asleep in the seconds following.

With a huff and regretting that his room was not one with two beds, he yanks an extra pillow off the mattress and throws it to the floor. He shut off the light and settles onto the ground beside the bed, using his favourite jacket as a make-shift blanket. He curls onto his side and struggles to get comfortable. He believes he's found the closest thing when Arthur's mumbles clarify just enough so that Alfred can make out the English.

"It's a queen size bed," Arthur is saying, "you don't have to sleep on the floor."

America is still for a moment, then he sits up to peer over the side of the mattress. Arthur had rolled to the opposite side, his body twisted in a position that probably wasn't all that comfortable. But too drunk to care he is just lying still and silent, already drifting off to sleep and leaving ample room for another.

Feeling sheepish, Alfred rubs at the back of his neck and looks back to the pillow on the floor.

With a sigh of resignation, he throws his pillow back up to the mattress and climbs into bed, watching to see if the smaller man would shift or complain or say anything further.

He was silent and Alfred decided that sleeping on a bed would be more comfortable than the floor anyway. He allows himself to relax, and can feel himself grin when his mind wanders off to the events that would take place tomorrow, and how much he would tease the Brit when he woke up with the mother of all hangovers the next morning.

* * *

**Yup.**

**I'm totes mcgoats one of those drunks who insists on walking home and laughs the whole goddamned way.**

**Anyways, just trying some new things and drabbling here. I've never actually written something completely in present-tense before, so this was an experience! This is one of those things that could be taken as slash if you squint and look at it sideways under a magnifying glass. I do like the USUK pairing, but really this is just a...I don't even know what it's called.**

**B-B-B-BROFIC.**

**And that's what they will be called from this point on.**

**Thank you for reading this far and I would be over the moon if you would share your thoughts - remember, new style, so I'm looking for any feedback I can get!**

**Looking forward to hearing from you.**

**Until next time, stay beautiful!**

**Ta~**

**Ami.**


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